


Intruder

by Anonymous



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Home Invasion, Self-Indulgent, no editing we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23322127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Someone breaks into your room. You don't love it.
Relationships: Tobias Erin "Toby" Rogers|Ticci Toby/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 104
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> no this is not edited. no i didnt plan this is advance. no i have not read toby's backstory in over three years. 
> 
> just take it.

“Paranoid” is not a word you would use to describe yourself. Paranoia is an unnecessary precaution, wasted worrying. You, on the other hand, did not waste. All you did was absolutely required, nothing short of normal adult responsibility, even though you weren’t quite yet an adult.

You remind yourself of this as you check the locks on every window and door in your house, feet shuffling against the cold floor. It’s about safety, about comfort. It’s not paranoia. This is an especially important reminder when you check outside your window before closing the curtains and when you resist the urge to check under your bed - for what, you don’t know. A person couldn’t even fit there. 

Sleep claims you after a lengthy struggle fought half-heartedly on both sides.

You awake what feels like not even a moment later to a jiggling at your window. Through the terror you remind yourself that the window is, in fact, very locked and whatever is on the other side is probably just the wind or a branch or something equally unthreatening. This thought is promptly killed by the sharp snap of the window lock followed by it tumbling to the ground.

You’re shaking as you reach for the kitchen knife you keep in your drawer. (“Another precaution, a result of healthy responsibility for one’s safety,” you have had to defend.) Not a moment after the hilt is in your hand is the window thrown open and a figure steps in like he owns the place. 

His bright orange goggles initially read as giant bug eyes and you feel as though you can't breath. He’s holding two axes - two axes against your what? Blunt kitchen knife? - and a mask covers the only other part of his face that might be identifiable. You push the knife away from your body and towards the intruder. He laughs, groans, and collapses.

You don’t move. You’re shaking so bad that the knife risks tumbling clumsily out of your hands despite your grip. The intruder does not move for the next minute, then the next 5 minutes. 10 minutes pass and he’s still immobile on your bedroom floor and though you hate it you should probably check on him. 

You nearly fall as you lean over the edge of your bed. The intruder is, uh, a lot more bloody than you initially noticed. There’s a head wound in there, you think, but you’re not sure that’s all his own blood. His axes coated in a little bit of fresh blood, too. You feel dizzy. What do you do in a situation like this? Your goal had always been to prevent things like this; this wasn’t supposed to happen. 

The first thing you get the courage to do is to remove the axes from his grips. A precaution: if he’s hurt someone else, he will probably hurt you. The thought does not steady your hands but it turns out its hard to keep an iron grip when you’re out cold so the task isn’t that bad. Next: you need to restrain his hands and feet, and maybe call the police. Thankfully, your responsible personality demands you to keep rope in your room as a means of escape, so you make quick work of restraining the intruder. You also remove his goggles for good measure, though you can’t seem to figure out how to take the mask off.

As you’re standing over him, admiring your preparedness and bravery in the face of danger, he wakes up. You nearly scream. 

He blinks for a second, looking up at you from the ground. He checks out his restraints. He spots his goggles on the floor nearby. He looks back at you. “Hey,” he says. 

Hey? Hey? He broke into your room and collapsed on your floor and he just, he just says, hey?

“Who are you?” you demand, keeping your eye trained on his hands. They’re steady. No escape attempt yet. 

“Toby!” he replies, too happy, as he struggles to sit upright. He wobbles a bit, his head wound probably still affecting his balance. “Who are you?” 

“That is none of your business!” your voice is just above a loud whisper. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t just collapse out in the open.”

“I think you could!” 

“I’m pretty sure I’d be d-dead if I did that,” he countered, drawing out the “pretty.” You noticed now, too, that he was quivering a little bit. Maybe quivering isn’t right - its more like he’s having a bunch of small spasms every once in a while. “What does it m-matter to you anyway?”

“You’re in my room!” You replied, beyond exasperated. He was getting less threatening and more frustrating. 

“Oh yeah! Private property. F-forgot about that.” You could hear his smile in his voice. What kind of person doesn’t understand private property? It’s the pillar of our society! The basis on which half of all rules are founded! And he just forgets about it?? This was making your head hurt. 

“Well, this is private property and you need to get out!” You insisted. “Now!”

“I’d like to but I’m a little-” he paused for effect. “Tied up.”

“Oh my god.” You just stared at him, becoming nervous of what would happen if you untied him and let him go. He would want his axes back, right? And they were alarmingly bloody. So you’re not thrilled to give them back. But you can’t just, leave him here until morning, can you? You should call the police. You should have called the police the moment he tumbled in. 

Suddenly you become very aware of the wound on his head - the bloody gash that looks at least like, a little serious? Should you treat that before you call? Is that a good idea? Lord, this whole situation is so uncomfortable. Maybe - maybe you should call while he’s not in the room. You concieve of a plan.

“How about-” You’re so clearly unsure of your words, it’s a sad contrast to how you normally are. “I’m going to treat your head wound.”

“Like, for free?” 

“Uh, yeah. For free?” You begin to carefully approach him to find your shake is back but not with a vengeance. You get over to him fine and hesitate before awkwardly looping your arms underneath his. You manage to pull him over to the bathroom attached to your bedroom (but he helps with the transfer more than you’d like to admit).

You stare helplessly into the cabinet above the sink while your intruder - Toby - waits patiently on the toilet, still very tied up. How….how do you treat a head wound? Pressure, for sure, but after that? 

“Do you need help?” He asks, and your face burns. Maybe you aren’t that responsible. This is a thing you should know how to do!

“No,” You say, grabbing some gauze and applying pressure to the wound until the bleeding stops. That step goes by far too quickly. Oh! Disinfectant. And - you don’t have any! Perfect, you’ll leave the room, call the police, and he’ll never know! “I’ll be right back, I’m going to grab some rubbing alcohol.”

“Okay!” 

You walk down the hall into the larger bathroom, closing the door and making the call. Every moment you leave him alone is agony, but soon you get to return with alcohol. 

When you get back, the bathroom is empty. Your blood runs cold. You whip your head around to find Toby halfway out the window, goggles back on and axes in his hands. The rope is lying useless and cut on your bedroom floor. 

“Oh, hey! I gotta go.” He says, tipping one of his bloody axes towards you in a waving motion. “Thanks for the treatment offer, but I don’t think the doc would like your work much anyway.” He leaps from your window and he’s gone, just like that. 

It takes you a moment to register but you’re over at the window the very next. You barely catch sight of him running away with two other people. You collapse on the floor. What an experience.


	2. Sweet Treat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He comes back.

You don’t sleep the night after the break-in. Toby has gone and his presence has been replaced by pain in your stomach and a gnawing anxiety that he - or someone else - would come back the moment you closed your eyes. You try to convince yourself that the thought is irrational (he left, he wanted to leave, why would he come back?) but through the haze of anxiety any logic in your explanations disappear. As the night goes on you only grow more weary, but you do not sleep. 

You don’t remember much of the following day, or the day after, but the night of the break in remains crystal clear. You’re thinking about it too much. You know you are. You know you’re being irrational - being paranoid. And if there’s one thing you aren’t, it’s paranoid. You are responsible. 

That is why on the third day you make yourself go to bed at your usual time, with only the usual precautions. You do not allow yourself to check the window more than once. You do not allow yourself to add more duct tape to the window (the only thing keeping it shut, currently, so someone could easily cut it to get in, someone could easily get in-). You lay down and you close your eyes and foolishly you expect yourself to fall asleep as you normally would. You don’t. 

After a few minutes you let yourself open your eyes. This is stupid. He’s not coming back, nobody is going to break into your room. There are hundreds of houses in your neighborhood, many larger and more expensive than yours. There is no reason for anyone to break into your house. 

So you should not be losing so much sleep over this. You drag a hand down your face, taking a moment to rub your eyes. The weight of sleep is behind your eyes, and it’s been there for what feels like years. This is stupid. You should be asleep by now. Maybe, you think blearily, you should try counting sheep. 

You don’t have time to actually try to count sheep before you hear something - or someone - fiddling with your window, and suddenly you can’t breathe. Your chest is tight and your eyes are trained on the window, ears listening carefully for the sound of the ductape being torn from where it is stuck. 

The wait for what is inevitable is agonizing, but the window is eventually pulled up - slowly, it feels, though you know it takes only an instant. A figure steps through, to axes in hand, and you begin to wish that you had the bravery to reach for your dulled kitchen knife. You notice that in addition to the axes he has a bag with him. Your heart might as well have stopped and your mind ran absolutely wild with what could be in there.

“H-hey!” he - Toby, you knew his name - said as he set his axes against your wall. Somehow that wasn’t very reassuring. “I wanted to th-thank you! For the other day.” 

It should not be surprising that you stayed silent, as if you could pretend to be asleep despite your violent shaking underneath your comforter. He wanted to - thank you? For what, applying pressure to a wound? For providing him a place to collapse? For - you couldn’t breathe - for trying to restrain him and calling the police? You felt sick. 

“I know you’re awake.” he said in a way that wasn’t at all threatening and you tried to make it sound like a threat, like it probably was. Maybe he was toying with you. “C’mon, I promise it’s n-nothing bad!” 

You hear footsteps approach your bed and soon a hand is on your comforter, pulling it back. You can only imagine how small you look, a quivering mess still trying to hide behind the sheet that’s been pulled away. You don’t like how the thought makes you feel so you try to sit up straighter and face him with some amount of dignity. Or however much dignity someone can face an intruder who might kill them can have.

“Here!” You can hear his smile in his voice again as he forces the bag into your hands. You drop it and hear the crinkle of plastic. Plastic. What dangerous items are made of plastic? Your mind is blank. You stare at the bag, and then at Toby. He gestures for you to look inside, so you do. With shaking hands you pull back the parts of the bag still blocking its contents.

And. It’s cookies. Those frosted ones that are always in the bakery section of the grocery store that nobody sets out to go to and only shops at out of convenience. The sticker is still well attached to the plastic casing, as far as you can tell; they’re probably untampered with. You just stare at them. Why would he get you cookies? Of all things, cookies.

“Cookies,” you muttered, your eyes still wide. Your head hurt.

“Y-yeah!” he replied eagerly. “They’re really good, just try th-them!” Enthusiasm radiated off of him and through the goggles you could tell he was looking at you expectantly. 

You let out a shuttered sigh and carefully tore the sticker off the plastic casing. You picked one of the cookies with the most frosting - an unconscious habit. You half expect it to taste bitter, or something, but it’s. It’s just a cookie. Just as passable as all the other frosted cookies from stores no one chooses to shop at. 

“It’s good,” you replied and Toby beamed. 

“They are, a-aren’t they?” he said. “Masky said they taste like shit, but he just has bad taste.” 

You hum, still anxious and unwilling to ask any questions about who Masky is or why Toby came back. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that. If the man wants to bring you some cheap cookies as a thanks for inadequately treating his wound then who are you to argue? 

Unless it’s all a rouse, a part of you mutters. Unless its to gain your trust before he hurts you. There’s still a noticeable tension in your shoulders but Toby doesn’t really seem to notice. He keeps on talking.

“I c-couldn’t get Hoodie to try ‘em though.” He continues. “So it was just my opinion against Masky’s, and we needed a tie breaker, and I thought I should thank you, so this went p-perfectly.”

You nod along. His rambling is almost endearing. 

“It’s so nice to be out.” He said, taking a deep breath, like one would when being outside for the first time in a while. Except, your room is not filled with fresh air. In fact, it smells very much like a fermentation of your laundry and shampoo from not having the window open for a few days. You try not to think about Toby taking such a deep breath of that scent like it was fresh air. “The forest is n-nice, though. Just not when you’re in it all the t-time.” 

He pauses.

“You can talk, you know. I’m not going to k-kill you.” 

You’re caught off guard, and you know it shows, but you have no clue what to say to that. So you stutter out a “thank you.” Thank you? For what, not killing you? Allowing you to speak? You need sleep. You need standards. Toby laughs a little bit and takes a cookie. Then he stops, and lets out an “oh!” 

“I never took my mask o-off.” He comments, tugging it off and shoving the cookie in his mouth. He also shoves his goggles on to his forehead, making his already fluffy hair look bigger. You quickly notice an alarming cut in his cheek and momentarily you are concerned about whether he’ll be able to eat the cookie correctly. He seems practiced in eating with the cut, though. You try not to stare.

“So,” he says, some frosted cookie still in his mouth. “The forest. Thoughts?” 

“I, uh, I’ve never been.” You reply cautiously. Toby’s not disappointed with your answer, though.

“But you’ve heard of it, right? What have you heard? The r-rumors.” he says. In a way this felt a little like a sleepover, between the cookies and the gossip and your pajamas. The familiarity of it allows you to deflate a little. A little. 

“There was, uh, a series of murders there I think. Don’t know when, though,” you reply. You take another cookie and shove it in your mouth so hopefully he won’t press you. He does.

“Yeah, yeah, but is there anything else?” 

You rack your brain. You were never one to engage in this sort of thing, like ghost stories and rumors. You only know about the murders because they were probably the most exciting - and nerve racking - thing to ever happen near this town. Then, you remember.

“There’s rumors of a stalker out there,” you begin, and in retrospect this is what you should have opened with. Nobody anywhere could escape hearing about the bloody thing. You’re of the opinion its just the result of some drunk or paranoid kids, though. “A tall guy in a suit, or something.” 

Toby nods. “He always has rumors about him, doesn’t he?” 

You make no reply and eat another cookie, trying not to think about how Toby is talking about this vertically gifted stalker who is almost definitely the figment of your town’s collective imagination. It sounds like he might know the guy. It’s weird. But a lot about Toby has been weird and mildly to extremely upsetting so it’s a wonder why you’re still surprised. The guy claimed to have forgotten what private property was (and then seemed to forget again). It’s not a stretch to guess that he just talks like that. 

The silence between the two of you is interrupted not by more stressful conversation but by a bang on the side of your house. Toby jumps at the sound, immediately looking to the window. 

“Looks like I’ve got to g-go!” Toby hastily pulls his mask and goggles back into place and steps off the end of your bed, where he had settled during your conversation. Easily he takes up his axes, once again gives you a wave with one in hand, and jumps out the window. 

He left you the cookies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on tumblr @ nondescript-headcanons

**Author's Note:**

> hmu @ chel on the creepypasta amino uwu i draw mostly there!


End file.
